My Little Bird

You don’t know what it’s like.
One day my little bird stopped singing,
getting cold and hard… every feather turned into a tiny icicle.

My hand reached inside to my ribs,
to find the sound that had been solaced my soul for such a long time that had become a part of me.
It wasn’t there.

When wind got cold and my figure got smaller,
the bird flew on my hunched shoulder and sat…
the little weight made me straighten up and open my heart to the storm.

Storms… always mighty, always indifferent… but,
I welcomed the rising wind like a child waiting for an adventure and
watched them passing with awe keeping my little bird inside, safe.

Do you know the feeling that there was something that you didn’t start but you were informed that it had already ended?
I waited for the day that I could take my little bird out to fly, one fine spring day with soft sun and gentle breeze, everything around sprouting green… whenever I saw the sign of warming daylight, I reached inside to touch the springy feather or the sleek beak… dreaming about the day of my bird’s flight, the journey, the soaring, the song spreading wide in the air.

But… our spring was robbed… my bird died.
We should have flown into that last storm, all wet… with the muffled sound of singing under the torrent… you’d know then… what living a life is like.

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